


Couch, verb: lie down (literary use)

by beastofthesky



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, M/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 09:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6232558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastofthesky/pseuds/beastofthesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So Red Base has this couch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Couch, verb: lie down (literary use)

**Author's Note:**

> Old as balls. Used to be hosted at a different archive a loooong long time ago, rehashed it a few years ago but apparently never posted it. _Old as balls._

The couch has never exactly been “new” to begin with. It had started out as that sickly hospital-walls color and it steadily accumulated all kinds of dirt, dust, spilled drinks and plates of food, grime from their armor and guns. You name it, the couch has a stain from it. It’s huge, easily able to seat three people, and all five of the Red Team members can fit when squeezed. Which, granted, isn’t often, but it’s _possible._

You flex your cyborg arm, feel the gentle whir in your palm, and reach over the threadbare armrest for the remote. You’ve seen this movie countless times and you feel like watching something different, for once.

Grif flops down on the opposite end of the couch with a sigh, just-washed hair dripping gently onto his shoulders.

“Remote,” he drawls automatically, not even looking your way.

“Fuck off,” you grunt disinterestedly. Well-practiced routine.

You tuck the remote as far away from Grif as possible; in retaliation, he slumps and takes up the rest of the space on the couch, feet _just almost_ touching your thighs because he knows you hate that. 

“Aw, c’mon, Simmons,” he cajoles. “I wanna watch something.”

“You always fall asleep during movies,” you snap in return. “I’m always stuck watching some lame zombie movie, then halfway through you start snoring.”

“I do not snore!” Grif fires back indignantly, and finally sits up. “ _Please?_ ”

You sit still for a full minute, absently watching the 30-year-old soap opera through the static of the TV, and then toss the remote in his direction without turning your head.

“I hate you.”

“I know,” Grif crows back, and you don’t need to look at him to see the smugness on his face.

You know the movie will be boring as all hell (predictable, to put it mildly), so you sit back and prep yourself for a game of Watch Grif Fall Asleep.

It’s routine: Grif always starts out sitting forward, enraptured, then he’ll sink back into the embrace of the grossest, most comfortable couch in this hellhole. His arms’ll either drift up to drape along the backrest, or he’ll cross them. His head will then droop down to his chest then jerk back up, then droop down, and it’ll continue for about fifteen minutes. Then snores start filling the room. You have this down to a formula.

Grif leans back into the couch.

Dick: 1  
Dex: 0

A sea of blood rages on-screen, complete with screams and rippling gunshots. You resettle yourself in your favorite position – you managed to find _one_ ergonomically inclined spot on the couch and you’re going to take advantage of it, dammit – and then glance at Grif again.

Arms crossed.

Dick: 2  
Dex: 0

More generic screams, more spurts of blood. There’s already been four historical discrepancies (not to mention at least seven outright violations of the laws of physics) and you really, _really_ can’t stand Grif’s fucking zombie movies.

In spite of yourself, you can feel your eyes closing. It’s not too often that the base is this quiet and at the risk of sounding like That One, you’d actually kill for a real nap.

You take a look at him again, wondering just how high your score is at by this point, but you’re surprised to see that he’s somehow managed to slump down and sprawl himself across the couch, hair making a mess across his forehead.

You sink lower into the couch and try to focus on the movie instead of Grif’s quiet breathing next to you.

Blood splatters. Grif murmurs something in his sleep and stretches out.

You freeze instantly. Good god, _no_.

“Grif,” you whisper, voice sounding much more strangled and frightened than you’d intended. He is _touching you_. On the list of Things You Don’t Like, that’s a top contender for #1.

“...Grif. _Grif_.”

Your heartbeat ratchets up and up; your mouth is dry.

The problem here isn’t that you hate people touching you.

It’s that you don’t really mind this.

“Grif, wake the fuck up,” you hiss again, shaking him gently by the shoulder. _Finally_ he shifts, half-props himself up on a forearm.

“What,” he mumbles sleepily, “s’movie over?”

The words are bottlenecked in your throat and nothing is willing to find a way out.

“S’it night out yet?” His voice is persistent, slightly husky; you make a noncommittal noise in your throat. “Kinda cold out here.”

“So?” you grunt, patiently ignoring that it _is_ night out, it _is_ kinda cold out here, and that Grif is giving off heat like a fucking furnace. Don’t you fucking dare, you tell yourself. Don’t you fucking dare.

Grif is still for a handful of heartbeats, and then he shifts and pushes his head into that crease between ribs and hips. You spend a moment in blank shock and all your brain can process is the _irony_ , because Grif’s head is pillowed on the organs that used to be his.

“Oh, _hell_ no.”

“Well, _I’m_ sure as hell not moving,” Grif mutters, and drives his point home by curling even closer.

You’re caught between slight panic (people _touching_ you, _christ_ , there are few things in this universe you hate more) and something indescribably _else_ that’s churning in your stomach and you just sort of–

–slump down on the couch and concede victory.

You can feel Grif grinning into your stomach through your t-shirt and it _is_ cold and he _is_ warm and it _is_ pretty late so this is totally excused. Probably. You take a deep breath and concentrate on shutting down your brain because your methods tend to be overthink overthink overthink panic _panic panic overthink panic overthink_ but bickering with Grif is always easy so there’s no reason for this not to be easy, too, so you scootch over and get an elbow in your stomach and knock knees but Grif’s weight is comfortable, in a weird way, and you fall asleep to his quiet not-quite-snores.


End file.
